


she won't be mystified

by thefudge



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Catholic Guilt, F/M, Yearning, jessica laughs at his demons and he needs that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 14:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11853468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: The first time he sinks his hand in her hair, it feels like plunging his bloodied knuckles in ice. Matt/Jessica.





	she won't be mystified

**Author's Note:**

> fair warning, this is unreasonably schmoopy and dramatic for such a small ship, but i love them so much already, and i'm not about to cut corners. the chronology of this is all over the place, as you'll see it jumps back and forth between episodes (you'll recognize lines from the script), but there's a lot of AU too. it basically takes place during the defenders, although the timeline is purposely left ambiguous. hope you enjoy pain!

_Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good._  
_But sometimes there were good times._  
_Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid._  
  
_There should be stars for great wars like ours._

\- Sandra Cisneros 

 

***

It’s disconcerting how quickly she has him figured out. Like he’s an average crossword in the Sunday paper. Every time he tries to deny it, she takes his words, crumples them up and throws them over her shoulder. He doesn’t faze her, not one bit. His intimidation tactics don’t work on someone who is both nonchalant and slightly buzzed. He’s protected his identity from so many people with so many efforts and this _drunk_ – because there’s no nice way of putting it – just waltzes in and tosses a dark lock over her eyes and decides. “Devil Boy, or whatever else you call yourself.”

 

 

“Jessica.”

Her name feels rough on his lips, not a person’s name, more like a switchblade. Some kind of safe-word at night when the block is quiet and the sirens have stopped wailing. 

_Jessica…_

 

But she won’t be mystified. He hears her climbing up buildings and swinging herself on rooftops - barely breaking a sweat - and it’s always with a marked lack of grace. She’s careless with her power. She doesn’t care about being noticed. It’s taken him years to master his strength and walk like a whisper. But she barely holds her balance.

He lands on the roof, but she’s not startled. She merely looks up from her camera. He can smell the alcohol on her breath from a street away.

“Rough night?” he asks with a tilt to his voice.

“It wasn’t before you showed up,” she drawls.

“Civil as always,” he replies with a small smile.

“I don’t like being interrupted while I’m working.”

Matt walks up to her. “New case?”

He perks his ears and tracks the various noises from across the street. She’s looking in on a particular window on the eighth floor. He identifies the sounds in no time…and he coughs.

“It pays the bills,” she mutters, zooming in on the couple having explicitly rough sex against the wall, in view of the window.

Matt can hear the woman’s desperate, breathy moans and it reminds him he missed church last week.

“Isn’t it kind of a drag?” she asks and there’s a tipsy edge to her question.

“What is?”

“Hearing all that shit, hearing other people’s business non-stop. It can’t be pretty.”

Matt heaves a sigh. “It isn’t. But I can tune out the garbage.”

“Do you, though?”

The question is not a challenge. She’s not teasing him.  She seems to be curious. She wonders if he’s as self-controlled and repressed as he appears. She has _some_ experience with volatile men.

But he merely tips his red ears. Sorry, _horns_.  “Nice to run into you, Jessica.”

“Stay out of trouble, Murdock,” she calls after him and the vapors of whiskey hit him like a brick. He inhales and exhales. He could get drunk on it. 

 

 

People always skate around his blindness politely. They never touch it. Often, it gives him an advantage; makes him look vulnerable, makes others more willing to listen to him, to trust him.

Not her, though.

“If you grab me like that again, I’ll punch you so hard, you’ll _see_.”

He’s momentarily shocked. It’s been years since someone addressed him in this profoundly insensitive manner. Hell, even his childhood bullies never got that far with words.

She doesn’t apologize. Even after she figures out he’s not full of shit, she doesn’t bat an eyelid. She doubles the offense.

“You look like an asshole.”

He smirks, feeling a new taste in his mouth. It’s not bitter, for once.

“It’s your scarf,” he replies glibly.

 

 

(her scarf smells like peppermint and gin and plaster and decay and burned wood and a frigid coolness, like a mountain range, capped with snow. It also smells like sweat and pine, the scent of her shampoo, the fragrance of her tears running down her sharp cheekbones)

(he slips it over his head quickly, her scent surrounding him, protecting him. he doesn’t know what she looks like, but he gets an imprint under his eyelids, a half-image of the person who wears this scarf. her plump mouth twists angrily and her face doesn’t welcome visitors. she’s the kind of girl you want to avoid in a bar or at a party, because she doesn’t believe in anything and doesn’t think you should either. his first instinct, therefore, is to dislike her. yes, he can begrudgingly respect her abilities, but he doesn't take to someone so faithless.

except, it’s not that easy once he fights next to her)

 

 

She’s light and heavy, at the same time. Her boots always land with a thud and make his ears ring. She’s got his back. She punches a man so hard he crumbles to the floor like a puppet. The next one’s coming from her left, so she grabs his shoulders and launches him through a window.

Matt feels a shiver run down his spine. He’s seen deadlier people, stronger people too. She’s not that special. But –

“Hey, Devil Boy. When this is over…you’re paying for my new camera.”

 

 

He does buy her a new camera. Fair’s fair, he _did_ break it.

Jessica finds the package on her doorstep.

She has his number for emergencies, so she rings him because she doesn’t care about emergencies.

“I don’t know what swanky neighborhood you live in when you’re not dressing up like Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but down here you don’t just leave shit on the floor for anyone to find.”

He snorts, feeling a strange mixture of annoyance and happiness to hear her voice.

“…so what you’re saying is I should’ve made a proper house call?”

He hears her grunt on the other line. “Don’t be a dick.”

 

 

He thinks he knows. What stumps him about her, what puts him in a tight corner. It's this _ease_ she has with him. Like she’s known him for ages. Like he’s anyone. Like his past and everything he’s done are simply not the point.

She doesn’t take him seriously - whereas everyone has, ever since he can remember.

Matt is aware that he’s kept most people at bay all his life. Foggy and Karen may be closer than most, but they silently know that some barriers can’t be crossed.  They can’t really level with Daredevil. For lack of a better word, he’s got his demons to wrestle.

Jessica doesn’t even try. She tells Daredevil that his devils are _stupid_.

“The scarf looked better,” she lets him know as her eyes glide over his suit.

He feels watched in a way that he hasn’t in a while. He’s being judged and processed and evaluated, and though he can tell when people lie, he can tell when they're emotional or upset, he can't tell whether she actually likes him. 

God, he’s getting self-conscious over a belligerent alcoholic who can barely hold herself together.

 

 

She picks up his glasses and tries them on. “Ugh. Will you quit it with the red?”

 

 

_Jessica._

He doesn’t shorten her name to Jess. She’s multiple syllables, she can’t be compounded into one. She can’t be reduced to a playful term of endearment.

She strolls into his private space, running her fingerless gloves over all his belongings, curious and proprietary.

He tries not to feel weird that he’s changing shirts while she’s only a few feet away.

She peers out of his stained windows.

“So, you wanna tell me how a pro bono lawyer can afford a loft like this in New York City?”

“You can’t tell now, but there’s a neon billboard across the street. Keeps most people up at night…not me.”

“Got it.”

 _Do you sleep at night_ , he wants to ask, but people never answer these sorts of questions.

He jokes about helping his landlord rough up people who’re late on rent. He feels stupid afterwards, like he tried to impress her. But they laugh about it, which feels good.

“Sorry about the mess.”

“Eh, it’s all right. You should see my place,” she shrugs, and the way her body aligns with her voice, you could say she _enjoys_ mess more than order.

“I would offer you a drink, but I think you probably had one too many already.”

He feels her rolling her eyes. “ _Please_. You probably only have some weak-ass Budweiser in your fridge.”

He frowns. It’s annoying when she’s right.

“What, do you work from home?” she asks, staring at all his cases stashed in cardboard boxes on the floor.

“I used to have a partner. We had an office.”

“And?” she drawls.

“Now we don’t.”  His tone doesn’t invite prying, so she doesn’t. But he almost wishes she _would_ ask.

Instead she just says, “Yeah,” like it’s self-evident.

He expects her to walk towards the door, but she turns around, hands in her pockets. He can hear her nails scratching at the seams. 

“…did they die on you or something?”

 The question catches him completely off-guard. He tilts his head to the side. His own blood rushing in his ears. “What?”

“Your partner.”

“Why – why would you say that?”

She scoffs. “ _Someone_ died on you.”

For a moment, he hates her. “No, he didn’t die.”

 

 

Elektra haunts his waking hours and his nightmares, until there’s no telling which is which. The fact that she’s alive should relieve him, should give him strength. But he finds himself depleted, all out of emotion. Because she cuts him, she breaks him and she beats him without discernment. And he used to love that about her, used to love how every moment with her was making the universe anew. 

But now he doesn’t feel so incomplete anymore, he doesn’t feel like he can just die with her. He’s got more people on his side…they’re counting on him.

Besides, Jessica would be so disappointed. 

 

 

"Listen, I'm in no position to judge, but your ex?" She whistles. "Christ. How did you guys make it work before?"

"We...we didn't."

 

 

He talks to Father Lantom about his ever-present guilt.

“I know I can get to her, make her see the light. She still remembers who she is, deep down.”

He listens patiently. “If you truly believe this, Matthew, then God will give you the strength to achieve it.”

“That’s just it, Father…it’s not about belief, it’s about want.”

“Mm. You mean to say…you’re not sure if you _want_ her to see the light?”

Matt shakes his head. Frankincense fills his nostrils. “Of course I do. I want to help her. I want her to get her life back. But I don’t know…if things can be like they were before between us.”

Father Lantom heaves a sigh. “How were they before?”

“Intense, all-consuming…wonderful…exhausting…impossible.” He feels as if he’s reciting a list of poisons.

“It sounds like you’re at war with yourself.”

“Aren’t I always?” he chuckles sadly. “Elektra was… _is_ all of those things and more, but _I’m_ not. That’s not who I am.” He hangs his head low. “But I should still love her, unconditionally.”

“We rarely get to choose in such matters, Matthew. Love is unconditional precisely because we don’t make the conditions.”

 

 

The first time he sinks his hand in her hair, it feels like plunging his bloodied knuckles in ice.

Her gloveless fingers caress his jawline, but her kiss is less polite.

He licks up every bit of whisky left on her lips as he pushes her up against the wall. He remembers the couple she was spying on that night. His hands yank off her scarf – their scarf, by now – and he makes short work of her zipper. She’s the one who told him to hurry the _fuck_ up. They haven’t got all night.

“You’ve got…too many layers on,” he complains because she is wearing at least two more sweaters underneath.

“So rip them off, tiger.”

It sounds sardonic coming from her, but his hands want to touch her so bad, so he does what he’s told. He tears off the material like it’s cotton candy.

“Jesus! I didn’t mean _literally_ –”

But he cuts her off with a feverish kiss and he hears the buttons of his own shirt clattering on the floor.

He runs his fingers down her bare spine, unclasping her bra. 

She groans against him, raising her hips and pulling him forward. She’s not one for subtleties.

 

 

He likes how erratic her pulse guests, how soft the skin under her breasts is, how she calls out his name with a pause in between ( _Maa-att_ ) when his tongue brushes the inside of her thigh.

 

 

She’s naked in his bed as she picks up his glasses from the nightstand and puts them on. “Ugh. Will you quit it with the red?”

They lie on the crumpled sheets together, but they don’t curl up in each other’s arms. They’re sitting side by side, contemplating each other silently.

“Breakfast?” he asks.

“Only if it’s liquid.”

“How about no drinking for one day?”

She rolls her eyes. “So that was your plan. Go down on a girl just to get her sober.”

He laughs. “I mean…if it works, I can do it again.”

He can hear her soft breathing, the way her lips part as she forms the next words. “Sounds like a bargain.”

 

 

She doesn’t put on a shirt for the rest of the day and he loves her for it.

 

 

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.”

“Tell me your troubles, Matthew.”

He can still hear her small sigh, and her lips at his ear telling him to _please fuck her_ , as he drives into her with no plan to stop. She's self-destructive in a way that's only about her. Like she's the only one she can possibly harm. But she doesn't realize she drags him down into her depths. He wants to fuck her until she's not drinking anymore, until she gets back her dead family, until Kilgrave is a name that does not exist. 

“I’ve let lust govern my reason.”

If only it were just lust.

 

 

They're talking to Lexi about her father and how his moral fiber was stronger than his death might otherwise suggest. But they're just words in the wind. Until she brings up the boxer. 

“...whatever. I’m just trying to say that my friend’s dad was a good guy and maybe yours was, too.”

Matt almost thinks, _she’s talking about another boxer, another kid, another life_.

Because the years have bricked up these memories and he never talks about his life before the permanent dark. To have it thrown in the ring so casually doesn’t smart as much as he thought it would.

She turns her face towards him, seeking permission _after_ the fact. He can’t see the texture of her skin but there’s a tension around her eyes, it translates in the air.

He nods briefly. Whatever she throws, he can take it. He takes it.

 

 

She kisses him right before she drags Danny back to the elevator. Luke is holding the door open. They’ve made it so far, they’re a team. Only one member is stubbornly playing the martyr.

“You’re not gonna make it out of here, will you?” and her voice is deceptively calm.

He grins at her. “I’m the only one who can keep her down.”

Elektra is sprawled in the shallow river below, her graceful features marred by insane determination.

“You realize that suicide is not heroic, right?”

“If you don’t go now, you’ll be in the same boat as me,” Matt says softly, nudging her forward.

Jessica sighs and there’s so much unlived potential in her breath, so much humor on her lips as they descend on his cheek.

“That’s for the road,” she mumbles, and then she pulls his chin forward. “And this one’s so maybe you’ll come back.”

She kisses him chastely on the lips, and it’s the softness that breaks him. This angry giantess who stomps on people’s hopes is touching him so gently. She forgives him.

He raises his hand to capture some of her between his fingers but she’s gone, running towards the elevator.

And a small part of him follows after her.

 

 

(he lies naked in the hands of quiet nuns who wrap up his wounds and wipe away the grime of battle. they run a wet cloth over his face, and he smells the sweat and snow of her scarf, and he licks his lips, tasting the ghost of a kiss.

he says her name once, when the candles are extinguished,

 _Jessica_.

there's no poetry in that name, not really. it summons no mystery, no mystical allure. it doesn't even summon him awake.

but it makes him smile. because the last thing she whispered to him after she kissed him goodbye was " _asshole_ ".)


End file.
